


Dinner Date

by PoeticallyIrritating



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6726781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeticallyIrritating/pseuds/PoeticallyIrritating
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Featuring interview transcripts, Pam trying to relate to Oscar, and Karen being a terrible cook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner Date

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for negative body image feelings and some sexual content.

INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT – THE OFFICE

SUBJECT – MICHAEL SCOTT

MICHAEL  
So, it turns out Pam _(snorts)_ is a— _(fit of giggling, uninterrupted for close to a minute)_

INTERVIEWER  
Michael, can you—can you get ahold of yourself, please?

MICHAEL  
Sorry, sorry. Pam is… _(stifled giggling)_

-

SUBJECT – KEVIN MALONE

KEVIN  
Pam…is a lesbian. _(grins)_

-

SUBJECT – PAM BEESLY

PAM  
I think I’m probably bisexual, actually? _(glances around)_ Don’t tell Michael, though. I don’t want to give him false hope.

-

Pam doesn’t really know how to deal with it. Especially with Jim there, looking increasingly awkward every time Karen comes over to lean on her desk. Oscar’s been a good sport, and he seems kind of relieved not to be the only person in the office who’s not straight, but he’s started getting mysteriously busy whenever she looks over. Maybe she came on a little strong; maybe three times a day is a little too often to ask for advice.

“Pam,” he finally says, when she corners him in the break room to ask how he deals with the way Michael talks about him, “sometimes it just sucks. Sometimes it’s lonely and it sucks, and you just have to deal with it.”

It doesn’t _have_ to be lonely, Pam thinks, feeling a little petulant. She kicks the table leg. She thinks maybe he’s angry with her, for not figuring it out sooner, not coming to his defense when Michael was parading him in front of everyone like a rainbow flag. Well, it’s not _her_ fault that women have a more difficult time acknowledging their attraction to women. Thanks to compulsory heterosexuality, or whatever. (She’s been doing some reading.)

She goes back to work. Jim keeps looking at her, and then looking away when she looks back—which is a little annoying, honestly. It’s not like they’re in elementary school, where boys and girls can’t be just friends.

Karen comes by her desk around four. “Do you want to come over for dinner?”

Pam blushes; the way Karen leans against the desk is a lot to deal with. And she’s still not used to Karen’s…straightforwardness.

“Yeah,” Pam says. “Okay.” She tries to hide her smile behind her hand, because of the cameras, but it doesn’t quite work.

-

Karen waits for her at the end of the day, even though they came in different cars. They linger in the office until everyone is gone, Karen lounging and Pam blushing in between filling out forms. When they walk down to the parking lot, Karen reaches out to grab her hand, and Pam gives it easily, humming a little with happiness. It feels absurdly middle-school, but in a good way. Karen walks her to her car, but before Pam can open the driver’s side door Karen turns her around and presses her against it, and the sun-baked metal and glass are hot against her back and the seat of her pants. Karen is tall, especially with the heels she’s wearing today (low, maybe an inch, but still higher than Pam’s Keds), and she kisses Pam on the forehead first, before she leans down to take Pam’s lower lip between her teeth. Pam gasps and then giggles, head falling back.

“What?” Karen says. “I was trying to be sexy.” She laughs a little herself, sheepish.

“You are, I swear!” Pam can feel herself blushing, cheeks warming. “We’re just—we’re in the Dunder-Mifflin parking lot.”

“Okay, okay, point taken.” She squeezes Pam’s hand. “See you at my place?”

“Yeah. I’m going to run home first and grab some stuff, maybe”—she glances up at Karen, quick, nervous—“a toothbrush?”

The tip of Karen’s tongue shows between her teeth as she grins. “Yeah, okay.”

Pam can feel herself sweating through her shirt as she drives home, so she showers. She stands in front of her underwear drawer, hair wrapped in a towel, and rifles through the cotton white, gray, and black. She pulls out a see-through lace set, bright pink—a birthday gift from an old roommate, stuffed in the back of her drawer. She bites her lip, shakes her head, and drops it back in the drawer. She picks out black underwear and a black bra—at least they match, and it’s better than gray, right?

She looks at herself in the mirrored closet doors, chewing the inside of her cheek as she pokes at her stomach in the mirror. _Squish._ She stares at the cellulite on her thighs until it blurs, and then she shakes her head and pulls on a pair of slightly wrinkled jeans and a clean purple blouse. She puts on what feels like the right amount of makeup for a night in—which feels weird, actually; they’ve only gone out before. Karen came in for coffee once and they made out in the kitchen, but Karen left to go home. She packs her toothbrush, pajamas, and a change of clothes, and her stomach flutters.

She cranks up the A/C when she gets back in the car because she still feels like she’s sweating. It helps, a little.

When she gets to Karen’s place, it looks like Karen’s changed too, and Pam wonders—first idly, then with a flutter of excitement and anxiety—how much time _she_ spent picking out lingerie.

That’s the thing about dating women, isn’t it? With men it’s not like there’s a lot of comparing. You don’t need to worry about whether your boyfriend has cuter underwear than you.

Of course, there are a lot of things about dating women. Pam starts to remember some of the nicer ones when Karen kisses her softly and squeezes her hand. “I should have told you something before you came over here,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“I’m terrible at cooking.” She offers a sheepish half-grin. “I already burned the sauce.”

Pam shakes her head, laughing. “What kind of Italian are you, Filippelli?” She tosses her coat onto the couch and makes her way to the kitchen, where Karen has laid out some partially-defrosted ground beef, onions, cans of diced tomatoes, and assorted herbs and spices. Pam directs. It turns out Karen is actually decent at every part of cooking except the stove-watching part, so Pam—who is pretty good at directing traffic and keeping an eye on things, even if she’s not a master chef—stirs and instruct.

While the sauce is simmering, Karen sneaks up behind Pam and snakes an arm around her waist. “You’re pretty good at this, you know?” She says it low and Pam feels the vibration of it deep in her belly. Karen’s lips brush Pam’s neck, and a pleasant shiver runs through her.

They eat spaghetti and meatballs at the kitchen counter, sitting next to each other on stools. Pam’s knee bumps Karen’s, and she lets it stay there.

When they’re done Pam turns on the faucet in the kitchen sink and starts rummaging around for rubber gloves, but Karen grabs her hand. “Not a chance, Beesly,” she says, in a low voice that makes Pam flush. “You are not doing dishes.”

“No?” She bites her lip with something like anticipation.

“I have a suggestion,” she says. “And that is…what if”—she leans in close to murmur in Pam’s ear—“I go down on you on the couch over there.”

Pam thinks her heart might have stopped. She stares at the faucet, which is still running, and when she can breathe again she turns it off. Then she turns to face Karen and kisses her hard, and when she pulls away she’s breathless and nodding. “Yes,” she says. “Yeah.”

They maneuver, stumbling, to the couch, and then Karen pulls back to give Pam space to stretch out. Pam leans back and feels a little ridiculous, laid out on the couch with Karen standing next to her. But then Karen positions herself on top of her, supported on her elbows, and leans in first to kiss Pam on the mouth—soft at first and then harder, and just as Pam feels like she’s running out of breath Karen nips at her neck. They’ve engaged in some trial and error as to what shows and what doesn’t, and Pam can tell that there’ll be a mark for a few minutes, red and angry, but it’ll fade before they have to show up at work tomorrow. While she’s been calculating this, Karen has been (pretty skillfully) unclasping Pam’s bra, and together they pull Pam’s shirt over her head, and then her bra straps over her arms. Karen traces a line along her side.

“You’re good at that,” Pam murmurs. “The—bra thing, I mean.”

Karen smirks. “Almost like I’ve been wearing one every day for fifteen years.”

Pam feels herself turning pink. “Well, I’ve never—” She blushes harder. “You know. With a woman.”

Karen’s teeth press gently into the swell of her breast, and Pam’s back arches. “Are you okay?” Karen asks, low.

“Yeah,” says Pam, and groans as Karen sucks at her skin. “Yes…” The word trails off in a grateful sigh as Karen draws lower, and Pam’s fingernails dig into Karen’s scalp. Karen yelps a little and Pam lets go, reaching to grip the edge of the couch instead.

Karen looks up. “It’s okay,” she says. “You’re not going to hurt me.” Her grin makes something jump in Pam’s stomach, and she brings her hands back to tangle in Karen’s hair as Karen settles between her thighs.

When they final settle on the couch, sleepy and satisfied, Karen calls Pam “dessert” and Pam blushes harder than she maybe ever has. She likes it, she thinks, that Karen can make her blush. That Karen likes talking about sex.

She’s careful, though, too. “Do you feel okay?” she murmurs.

Pam’s sweaty cheek is plastered to Karen’s shoulder. She _hm_ s and says, softly, “I feel perfect.”


End file.
